Falsities
by thegalliumspoon
Summary: He wonders if there really is a bright light at the end of the dark tunnel, or if it's just something he's been told to follow. (None of the characters are mine, they all belong to Mofftiss and ACD. I crei.)
1. Chapter 1

"No one ever listens, this wallpaper glistens

Don't let them see what goes down in the kitchen.

Places, places, get in your places

Throw on your dress and put on your doll faces.

Everyone thinks that we're perfect

Please don't let them look through the curtains." - _Dollhouse_ , Melanie Martinez

John smiles tightly at his mom as she checks over the outfit he is wearing for the first day of school. Her eyes are bloodshot and her breath smells like alcohol. John barely manages to hold back a grimace as she pats his head, he shouldn't really expect her to be sober. Somehow, though, deep down inside, John had hoped that she would at least _try_ on the first day. She nods her approval of his outfit as she wanders off, presumably to find the sibling of the beer she had just consumed.

John sighs, double checking his reflection in the small mirror by the front door before squaring his shoulders and pushing the door open, stepping out and squinting into the bright morning light.

John Watson's jumpers hide a map scars and bruises. Thin raised lines litter the inside of his right wrist from the small knife under his bed, hand and fist shaped bruises are scattered in an ugly constellation of blue-blacks and greens across his torso from his near constant beatings. His mates, if you could call them that, constantly make fun of him for his fashion sense, or lack thereof. John doesn't care though- to him, the jumpers are his armor against the world,; he thinks it's a bit ridiculous that he thinks this way about them. He figures someday he will give them up, but not now.

The first time John talks to Sherlock is actually 3 months after they had first met in English. "Hey, Sherlock, can I borrow a pencil? I forgot mine at home." His smile seems slightly forced as Sherlock stares at him for a few moments, indescribable eyes flickering over his face and cataloging his features. Shrugging, Sherlock holds the pencil out in his elegant hands. "I need it back when you're done." he drawls in his baritone. "Don't chew on the ends."

John's smile loses its edge and Sherlock is suddenly treated to a sunny smile few ever see. "No problem, mate. Thanks for the pencil."

John Watson is a mystery, Sherlock decides. He has been studying John discreetly since the first day of school because _he doesn't make any sense._ Sherlock knows that his home environment is atrocious, with a drunkard for a mother and a father that doesn't know when to stay his hand. John, however much he struggles at home, (Sherlock pretends not to notice this in the line of his shoulders or his gait or the evenly spaced lines he saw on John's wrist the day John stopped him from falling on his arse after Anderson had tripped him) always arrives to school on time, with all of his homework done, and dressed neatly.

Sherlock prides himself on his lack of sentiment. But John Watson is a paradox and Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed sociopath, wants to solve (save) him.

After what both boys collectively refer to as "the pencil incident" (not that either knows that they refer to it the same way in their minds) John is seen less with kids from his rugby team, and more often with a certain genius. He praises Sherlock and Sherlock preens, while simultaneously unraveling John's secrets in his mind. He has not, for the first time he can remember, disclosed John's full past when deducing him out aloud. He threw in a couple of disparaging remarks about John's sister to make it seem that he had not developed a _conscience_ (how preposterous) and John had said "amazing!" anyway. Looking at Sherlock like he couldn't quite believe that Sherlock hadn't figured out every little detail of his home life and blurted it out. (While John was smart, Sherlock decides, he is still _people_ and cannot be expected to be a genius and pick up on things which seemed obvious to Sherlock.)

Soon they were inseparable. One was never seen without the other, Sherlock's thin hands making wild gesticulations while John listened to his friend ranting about the stupidity of the general public with a smile on his face.

John was approached many times about his choice in friends. When they got less than friendly, Sherlock would often turn up out of thin air, defending John. Everyone was shocked when this happened, and the student body (and most of the teachers, including the headmaster) started speculating about who this boy was, the boy who had worked his way into the heart of the coldest, most obnoxious student in the school.

John was getting close to his tipping point, he could feel it in his chest, growing tighter, ready to snap like a rubber band.. He was coming home to his drunk mother cowering in the corner as his father loomed over her, hand outstretched, disdain on his face as if he was doing nothing more important than swatting a fly. His contempt oozing over the words and dripping out of the spaces in between the words as molasses would. "You filthy _bitch_. Don't you dare talk to me like that. You are _nothing_ without me. _Nothing_. Our daughter is disappointment enough; a whore that lies with _women_. I can't have a woman that talks back to me now, can I?" Every time this happens John feels powerless to do anything. Standing, his knees locked as he struggles under the decision to save the woman who raised him and the man he fears most in the world.

He had been subjected to the same treatment as his mother had, a young boy of twelve, shaking in that same corner, blood streaking down his face from the cut on his brow and pooling in a vermillion puddle under his eye and dripping off of his chin.. His sister stands defiantly in front of him, chin lifted high and eyes narrowed in challenge at her father. That had cost her more than John has cared to admit, and he wishes he could have had as the guts she did that day. Now, he's left standing with an impossible decision. Be defiant or remain victim to his father's actions.

He wonders if there really is a bright light at the end of the dark tunnel, or if it's just something he's been told to follow.


	2. Chapter 2

"Who, who are you really?

And where, where are you going?

I've got nothing left to prove

Cause I've got nothing left to lose

See me bare my teeth for you

Who, who are you?" -Who Are You, Really? by Mikky Ekko

In the end, it was actually his father who tipped the balance between fear and bravery (stupidity).

"You fucking faggot. I should have known, since your sister. Your sister got you thinking this way, didn't she?" He stands, looming over them, eyes glittering a malicious navy as he takes in the sight before him. Sherlock and John, currently entangled in a lovers' embrace on the bed, lips tinted rose from kissing..

John pulls out of Sherlock's grasp, giving his hand a gentle squeeze as he reaches out to his father. "Dad, don't-"

"What did you just call me, boy? You're not my son. I didn't raise a queer."

John flinches back, almost colliding with Sherlock, who automatically reaches out to steady him.. His father raises his hand and John steels himself just before surging forward to shove past his father, tugging Sherlock with him as he clatters down the stairs, his heart racing.

They've almost made it to the front door before John feels Sherlock's hand wrenched from his grasp. Gasping, John turns around and lurches towards the (illegal) firearm in the hall cabinet his father keeps to scare away the various ill-intentioned ilk that show up at their front door. Sherlock is held by his arm in a grasp that will leave bruises and despite his superior height he seems extremely small compared to the man who terrorized John his entire life. Shaking slightly, John loads the gun and aims it at his father's head in one smooth, practiced motion. (His father will never know this, but John practiced loading and unloading the gun while his father was to drunk to pay him any mind.) His intentions are clear. Let go of Sherlock or we'll see what the insides of your head look like plastered to a wall.

John's mouth is set in a grim line, his face is set and the reason is clear. He had been edged along the cliff all of his life, and now he's reaching his tipping point. Before, his arms had been spinning wildly in a desperate attempt to control it. Mr. Watson, however, did not recognize the danger signs and pushed to far, sending John into a freefall.. Now he is faced with the results of his actions, an angry but rational 16 year old, quivering slightly out of tension, eyes the same navy blue as his own and unwavering.

Slowly, the realization that he can do nothing to stop his son dawns on Mr, Watson's face. He lets go of Sherlock's arm and puts his hands up in surrender. Sherlock slowly makes his way over to John and gently touches his shoulder. John didn't even realize he was crying, but when he turns his face to Sherlock like a blind man's seeking the sun, his face has two trails of tears leading down from his dark blue eyes.

Sherlock's movements are gentle when he picks of the phone and dials the police, speaking softly as he describes the current situation (omittiing the fact that John was currently in a position where at any point he could commit patricide.) When the phone call is done, Sherlock rubs John's back in slow, gentle circular motions as he carefully frees the gun from John's tight grasp.. When the gun is out of John's clutch, he motions for John's father to stand up and get into the closet. The brunette wedges a chair under the door handle and sets the gun down on the hallway table. He turns to the smaller boy, who is shaking like a leaf and is probably in shock. Sherlock grabs John's shoulders and leads him to sit down at his kitchen table, kneeling in front of him and grabbing his hands in a sort of plea. John only seems to stare numbly at their intertwined fingers, the pale, tapered fingers and shorter, tanned ones that are tangled in a knot.

Soon after, the police arrive on scene. They open the cupboard when Sherlock points to it and the medics give them cursory checks to make sure there is no damage that needs attending. When they ask John to take off his jumper so they can check his shoulders, he pauses in the obediance he has help so far and glances helplessly at Sherlock's face. He gives him an encouraging nod so John complies, tugging the soft material over his head. He hears hisses of sympathy as they observe his mottled back, and soon after they finish.

A constable with a warm smile and kind countenance asks John a few questions and when he suggests they go to the station, Sherlock suddenly reappears from wherever he was.

"No." His voice is firm, and his arm slings automatically around John's shoulders.

The police constable smiles and opens her mouth to speak but Sherlock cuts her off. "I said he will not go down to the station, so he will not. He has just been attacked by his father. If you find this a problem, call my brother, Mycroft Holmes. I'm sure he could sort this out." John looks up gratefully at the brunette, who only squeezes his shoulders in response.

The call is made and Sherlock takes John to his house. To home.

"Sherlock! Give me back my homework!" John laughes brightly as he sprints after his boyfriend on the damp grass behind the Holmes' house. The genius turns at the call of his name and he smirks before taking off again, long legs eating up the distance.

Eventually, after several collisions with the ground, muddy after the rain the day before, 4 new grass stains on John (and one big one on Sherlock's shirt front from when John finally tackled him to the ground), John has his homework and both boys reenter house to hear the call from Sherlock's mother. "You better not be tracking mud into the house boys!"

Sherlock and John shuck their shoes as they end up in Sherlock's room. They disrobe completely and end up on the monstrous poster that takes up most of the space in the room. (Causing Sherlock to grumble about lost laboratory space consistantly.) Sherlock traces patterns onto John's side, causing him to shiver and burrow further into the taller boy's embrace.

It's been six long months since that dreadful day. Since, Sherlock's parents have been named the guardians of John (thanks to some miracle of Mycroft's) and they are both helping each other. There were still rough patches, like John's night-terrors. But the duo is slowly healing.

Looking up at Sherlock, whose dark curls are outlined by a soft halo of golden light, making him look protective and vulnerable at the same time. In that moment John decides that the light was definitely worth the wait.


End file.
